


Utility and Usefulness

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Concatenation Timestamps [7]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Exercising, Fondling, Human Furniture, Kink, M/M, play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 10:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6280288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Beg pardon?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Weights, darling. Bring me the two twenty-kilo plates, would you?”</i>
</p><p>Bond and Q find a new way to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Utility and Usefulness

“Beg pardon?”

“Weights, darling. Bring me the two twenty-kilo plates, would you?”

Q regards James where he lays, where he rises, where he lays again. Muscles define in ripples of tension along his back, standing in contrast beneath glistening skin. His sweatpants dip low enough that Q can make out clearly the dimples in the small of his back, and Q shivers a little. James working out is a sight to behold. James doing push-ups is a particular favorite when Q chances upon observing him.

“Why can’t you go to them? You’ve half the shed for them now.”

“I’d like you to set them on my back,” he grunts, hands placed so closely together they form a diamond shape between forefingers and thumbs. “Added resistance.”

“But I have my computer,” Q tells him, cradling the laptop to his chest.

“Set it down.”

“On your back?” He asks, absently. “The tea is on, too.”

“How long could it take to run to the shed?”

“And bring back plates that amount to 61.5% of my body weight?” Q laughs, eyes wide. “Just go to the shed, James.”

His agent sighs but continues with the motions, as stubborn as Q is when he wants to be. He only works out, now, because it is so ingrained in his mental routine. He needn't, now that MI6 no longer has him on a leash, but he does anyway.

Q can't say he's disappointed. 

He watches his husband’s shoulders shift as he lowers himself and pushes back up again, muscles bunching beneath smooth skin. Q feels the familiar and inevitable stirring between his legs and ignores it. Behind him, in the kitchen, the kettle finishes boiling.

“Q,” James mumbles, voice not so much strained as barely tightened. “Please?”

Q looks towards him, following the path marked by a singular bead of sweat as it skims down his spine. He glances again towards the kettle, steaming. With a soft sound in his throat, he thinks of dragging the weights into the house, and the scratches they’ll leave on the hardwood floor.

“I’ve a better idea,” Q says. Ignoring the soft curse from his husband, he sets his laptop to James’ shoulders and goes to the kitchen. He steeps his Earl Grey in a cup paired with a saucer, meeting James’ eyes briefly when Bond glances toward him with an arched brow.

“It takes a few minutes,” Q explains.

“This was your ‘better idea’? Making tea?”

Q’s smile quirks high on one side, and he simply shrugs. The teabag set aside, he brings cup and saucer with him back to the living room, now seemingly a gym. He’s not bothered to change out of his sleep things today, flannel trousers and thick socks, and one of James’ undershirts hanging too large on his frame. The cats observe, all three in a row, from the safety of the couch.

“Quinlan,” James says, and the snap of his tone tugs welcome tension between Q’s legs. “I’m asking again, kindly…”

“Stay still a moment,” Q tells him. With another muttered oath, James holds his position, lowered over his hands, suspended just above the floor. Q sets his tea to the floor beside them, and placing his bottom on James’ rump, he takes a prim seat upon his husband. A smooth pivot brings him to his belly, laying the length of James’ back. He opens the computer, resting on James’ shoulders and the back of his neck.

“Sixty-five kilos,” he says, with a grin. “Go.”

James snorts a curse but dutifully pushes up once more, arms trembling as he holds himself up before lowering again.

“All this because you're too bloody lazy to get my weights.”

“I’m being a fantastically attentive husband,” Q counters, typing something briskly into the computer. “You asked for resistance and in every way I have fulfilled that request.”

“You’re a right bastard,” James informs him, slowly lowering himself again.

“Keep form, 007,” Q replies, setting an elbow to James’ shoulders and his chin against his hand. “Shall we say another 50 to complete the set?”

“This can’t be comfortable for you.”

“Hush,” says Q. “More mindful breathing, less fussing.”

“I’m not -”

Q simply hums as James cuts himself off from doing just that, grunting softly as he slowly raises and lowers once more. After ten, Q reaches for his tea and sips it carefully, setting it back to the saucer when he’s lowered again. He’s scarcely able to focus on work himself, though would never admit to it. Bond’s strength shifting beneath his body is an immense and delicious distraction.

“Thirty more, Mr. Bond,” Q tells him. “Twenty-five more kilos than you anticipated.”

“Must be all that after-work beer.”

“Are you calling me fat? When I’m providing a service to you, who’s decided it’s more appropriate to sweat all over the living room rather than out in the shed?”

James laughs and catches himself a moment to hold himself up, shoulders tense and elbows locked and arms shaking. The extra weight certainly makes a difference. The fact that that weight is his husband, lazing and stretching atop him is a divine sort of torment.

Ten more and he stops again, head down and lips parted. Sweat clings to the tip of his nose and he gently blows against the drop to make it slip away.

“You’re typing very little for someone so busy they couldn't go to the shed,” James points out, amused, tilting just a little to one side as he lowers himself again so Q can reach his tea.

“I need you to focus, 007. On your ‘reps’,” he grins, “rather than me.”

“Little hard when…”

“Are you? I can’t imagine that’s proper form.”

“Fuck’s sake, Q,” James laughs, nearly losing himself entirely. Q sips his tea and skims through his emails, wholly disinterested in doing anything resembling work when his husband is beneath him like this. Firm and slick with sweat, trembling from what is to Q a remarkable feat of physical achievement. Q lifts a foot into the air and sets his tea back in place, and the next movement lower finds his laptop set beside it.

He folds his arms and rests his chin on them, tensing his body in a single twist that presses his own little bit of hardness against Bond’s back.

“You make an excellent sofa,” he observes, teasing fingertips from the short hairs at the back of James’ neck, down to follow the straining muscles of his shoulder. “It stands to reason that one so dedicated to service would be capable of providing all manner of utility.”

James hums as he continues to push through his workout, slow and deliberate movements to keep form rather than fast and ineffective ones to get it over and done with. He will ache after this, he is certain.

“Did you have something in mind for me, quartermaster?” He asks finally, setting his hands a little wider as he begins the last fifteen press-ups that Q asked of him.

“Many things, suddenly,” Q admits, biting his bottom lip and releasing it with a grin. “You’re the perfect height for me to work from were I sitting on the floor. A seat, perhaps, while the couch is occupied by cats.”

“You could move them.”

“Or I could let them remain peaceably where they are, and ensure your abdominal muscles continue to be engaged.” He strokes the backs of his fingers down James’ arm, following the hard line of his triceps. Moving to James’ ribs, Q lets his hand trace the ridges of bone and oblique muscle there, ripples of male physique that stir his belly tight. As James begins his final five, Q wraps his arm around him and presses his palm against his belly, stretching down to brush a touch between his legs.

“I’m going to fall,” Bond warns him. “I’m going to fall and your hand will be trapped.”

“You won’t, 007. You’re better than that.”

“You’re a bloody distraction,” James curses softly, closing his eyes and snarling his lips back as he forces himself to keep on, counting down aching push by aching pull until the last is completed and he quickly pushes out a knee to catch himself before he actually traps Q’s arm. He seeks with a hand to make sure Q doesn’t gracelessly slip off with the change of position.

“I don’t think I pushed myself this hard when I was on active duty,” he murmurs, catching his breath and bringing a hand up to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

“You’re welcome,” Q tells him with a grin and a kiss between his shoulders. He pushes himself upward, but not off. Dragging his legs beneath him, he settles to sit on James’ bottom, legs crossed at the ankle. Bond remains on hands and knees, and straightens his back, rolling his head to stretch his neck.

Only when Q reaches for his tea, and sets the saucer between James’ shoulder blades, does Bond laugh, low. “What now?”

“Now I need to do the work I couldn’t when you were moving about. Stay still.”

“Quinn, please…”

“007.” The numbers are clipped, not curt but decisive. Every muscle in James’ body stands ready, brought to attention by so many years of following that particular tone. Stretching lazily, Q grasps his laptop and brings it to his thighs, resuming a decidedly un-work-related conversation with Eve. “Consider this an exercise in endurance, rather than calisthenics.”

“I can barely hold myself up,” James laughs, and Q draws a hand through his hair. 

“But you are. And I am very proud of you.”

“I’m dripping in sweat.”

“Unfortunate but hardly enough to hinder me in my work,” Q replies easily, tapping back a reply before opening up a document with measurements needed for a new device.

“You’re getting off on this, aren't you?” James asks him, amusement curling his tone.

Q considers the question, beyond the dry accusation in it. He looks down to the man beneath him, proud and ferocious, now bent in service simply because Q asked him to remain so. Bond could easily spill Q to the floor, wrestle him down and hold him pinned. He could, but he doesn’t. He does as his quartermaster has asked. He waits for Q’s permission to move despite his exhaustion. James is as proud now as he would be were he not acting as a chair for Q’s delight, as ready to take pleasure from service in this way as he does in every other.

Q takes up his tea and sips, before setting it back down to the plate held balanced by his husband’s body. “It wasn’t my intent,” he says, “but yes. Aren’t you?”

James laughs then, breathless and helpless to it, shifting incrementally to adjust his position. “I hate to say that I am, actually,” he grudgingly admits. 

“Good. Then hold position, 007, until I give the order to move.”

“Yes, quartermaster.”

It’s a damn near miracle that Q doesn’t moan at the words. Holding his bottom lip between his teeth so tightly that it hurts, he waits for the shudder of pleasure to pass. There are minute shifts of movement beneath him, involuntary twitches as Bond settles to sustain himself this way. Rarely does Q feel beautiful, despite how often his husband insists that he is. Rarely does he feel lovely.

The sensation now fills him so suddenly that he’s forced to draw a breath, as if to stretch his lungs to allow room for it. Nevermind that James is wearing sweatpants. Nevermind that Q’s in his pajamas. He raises his chin and observes their reflection in the darkened television screen. For a moment, despite tousled hair and a too-large t-shirt, he feels positively regal, seated decadent upon the most handsome man he’s ever known.

When his tea is finished, Q sets the cup and saucer aside on the floor. He works a little while, and James is quiet. Morning brings the chattering of birds in the shrubbery outside their windows, and spreads light in spills of gold across the floor. Now and then, Q strokes along James’ spine, to let him know he’s not been forgotten. Now and then, his other hand lowers, to rub ease to James’ thighs.

It is a strange sensation of being entirely wanted, entirely useful, in every possible way. James’ body aches from the exercise, from the tension of holding himself still afterwards. His body aches with need, for Q to touch him, for Q to tell him crisply to stay still, anything at all.

He doesn't speak, but he shifts into every touch against his cooling skin. James tilts his head back and deepens the arch in his back when Q draws his fingers through his hair. He shifts his thighs apart wider when his husband touches him there.

It is ridiculous that this alone could get him so hard, and yet -

“Would you care for more tea?” James asks him.

Q watches him with a smile, hesitant in his reply to wait for the expression to smooth. It takes a moment, fingers curled against his lips, until finally he clears his throat. “I would, yes.”

“I could make it for you.”

“You could. But then I’d lose my seat.”

Q sets his laptop aside, hands pressed to James’ bottom and back as he arches his back and stretches, legs straight out in front of him. He lets them drop and swing lightly, toes skimming the floor, before turning to lay with his back against James’ own. His cock tents his sleep pants, achingly hard, and Q allows himself a brief stroke, writhing languid against his husband beneath.

“007,” he sighs, biting his lip and letting it slip free with a soft moan. The decadence is intoxicating, dizzying as Q touches himself, fabric whispering beneath his hand. The other wraps beneath, knuckles brushing over Bond’s nipple. “You are remarkable.”

James sighs, a heavy puff of breath, and curls his back and shoulders, as much to escape the tickling teasing as to bend Q's back further too.

“Am I?”

“Quite.”

James moans then, soft and pleading and lovely, and his entire body shivers, toes to shoulders. Settling himself on one hand to balance, he brings his other up to catch Q’s and take it to his lips to kiss. “You’re driving me crazy here,” he admits.

Q arches up to his shoulders, bowed upward with his belly raised. He keeps his arm above his head, fingers splayed against James’ mouth. His other hand glides down his stomach and into his pants, to take himself properly in hand.

“You love this,” he says.

“I love you.”

“You love being useful.”

“Yes,” James laughs against his husband’s hand, kissing over and over the slender fingers he knows so well, taking one between his lips to suckle softly. Q’s shiver ripples through his own body, as does each undulating thrust into his hand.

Q tilts his head aside and watches their reflection, their forms together like a piece of art, service given both in James’ support and Q’s need for it. Each upholds the other, in a sense, and together the differences in their forms seem perfectly matched rather than disparate. Q raises a knee and sets his heel to James’ bottom, laying like an odalisque across the divan of his husband’s body.

“Look towards the telly,” Q tells him. “Tell me what you see.”

James does, a slow turn of his head to regard them both. Q is exquisite, bent and arched against him, a hand in his pants and stroking himself to pleasure. He is shameless in his beauty here, relishing in it, pulling James into his orbit with fingers against his lips.

“A little satyr,” James replies, smiling wide when Q laughs. “And the man who loves him, beneath.”

Q sets his toes to the ground for balance and lets his other leg drop wider to open himself more. He strokes, over and over, faster, now, and watches as James gets hard from just listening to him, just watching in the reflection and feeling Q move against him.

“Christ,” he sighs.

Already Q’s movements grow unsteady. Already they jerk erratic as he struggles to sustain this spectacular new pleasure they’ve discovered. Every breath gives way to a whimper, rising higher. Every tug pulls his body upward. They watch each other, held rapt by the other’s reflected gaze. Q comes before he can even give warning that he will, a soft cry choked with delight as he spills against his fingers and dampens the inside of his pants.

“Please,” James begs, agonizingly close himself without so much as a single touch. His husband’s ecstasy seems to seep through his own skin, coarsening his voice. “Please, Q.”

With a heady laugh, nearly drunk with delight, Q wipes his hand on soft flannel and slowly, carefully, turns to his belly. Smearing kisses against James’ shoulder, rubbing himself from chest to hips along Bond’s stalwart form, Q reaches beneath him and slides his hand into his sweatpants. “Like this,” Q tells him. “Don’t let me fall, 007.”

James closes his eyes as he moans, arms trembling, curling into fists against the floor as he rocks carefully into Q’s grip against him. He is careful to keep position, enough so that Q does not fall, so that he doesn't even slip from him. James can feel the dampness of Q’s pants rub against his skin, he knows how it smells and how it tastes, how it feels drying on his skin…

He will drag Q into the shower after this and kiss him breathless.

“More,” James begs him. “Please. Come on.”

Q doesn’t tease him in this, having spent so much of the morning doing nothing else. He worships him with kisses, praises him with sighs. He rewards him with quick turns of his wrist and practiced strokes, wrapping his other arm around James’ chest to hold himself secure as ripples of pending orgasm begin to sway his unyielding agent.

Q tells him that he’s beautiful. He tells him that he loves him. He tells him that he’s proud of how well he’s done and these are the words with which Bond allows himself release. A gasp and a groan, body shaking as he slicks Q’s hand, he manages only by sheer resolve to keep himself from collapse, milked to pleasure that bursts sparks behind his eyes.

Slowly, Q unfurls from him, sliding clumsily to his knees. “Move,” he whispers, as his messy fingers smear over James’ glistening skin. “As you like, 007, move as you like.”

James’ limbs tremble, hard enough that it is constant, but slowly, gently, he turns to sit on his hip and lie on his side. With a gasp, he rolls to his back and reaches for Q to bring him nearer.

“I think my toes have gone numb,” he comments, snorting laughter and bringing a hand to his face to rub there. “I’m so dizzy. Best bloody orgasm of my life, Q, Christ.” He seeks for his quartermaster and draws him near, ignoring the mess between them as James nuzzles into messy curls and whispers sweet nothings against his ear. “God, I love you.”

Q accepts the nuzzles, the kisses, the words and sighs with a wide smile, cheeks flushed and energy spent. A fraction of what James exerted, granted, but that hardly lessens the moment shared between them now in utter and full-bodied relief. He tucks his arms between them and makes himself small against his husband, pushing soft, clicking little kisses against neck and shoulder and cheek.

“Let me draw a bath for you,” Q says. “Hot water and salts to soothe you. And after, I’ll ease your muscles soft again with my hands.”

“A massage? You spoil me.”

“A well-earned reward for your dutiful service,” Q grins.


End file.
